


Lights

by ongreenergrasses



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-12
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2019-02-14 02:10:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12997539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ongreenergrasses/pseuds/ongreenergrasses
Summary: She watches and she waits and she hopes for a miracle, because that is what she does....Day One of the DCTV Hanukkah Event





	Lights

Iris and her father hadn’t celebrated Hanukkah before Barry came to live with them. Her current affinity for the holiday was not one of those things that she loved because it was in her memories. She didn’t love Hanukkah like she loved the Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby Christmas carols her father always played on records, old records, ones that always got stuck and didn’t have the best sound quality but somehow sounded good anyway. She didn’t love Hanukkah like she loved decorating the tree with the cheap plastic strings of beads that came in horribly tacky colors, gold and red and purple all mixed together, strings of beads that she’d bought with her pocket money at CVS when she was six and seven and eight. She didn’t love Hanukkah like she loved making gingerbread, or like Grandma Esther’s eggnog. Those were all sacred things, sacred because there had never been a holiday season without them, sacred because they were an integral part of every memory surrounding December that she’d ever had. Those were traditions that she had not chosen, and so they were the ones she kept, would always keep.

Hanukkah was different to her. Hanukkah was a choice, and it was a choice that she kept making.

She’d always known that Barry celebrated Hanukkah, but before she learned what it was she just knew it as something different. She’d gone over to his house when they were both kids, back when they lived in separate houses, and that night it had been snowing just slightly. His mother had carefully lit a candle, held it in her hands like it was something precious, something special; his father had led them in several things Iris later learned were blessings but, at the time, thought were songs. At first she tried to mouth along to the words, but they were too foreign for her for her to grasp. She hummed instead. She stared at the flame as it danced over the tops of the other candles, lighting them one by one; stared at the light reflected in the eyes of her best friend.

“Why don’t we do what Barry and his parents do for Christmas?” she asked her father in the car on the way home.

“What do you mean, baby girl?”

“They light candles and sing. We’ve never done that.”

“Oh,” her father said, and it was a long, drawn out “oh”, an “oh” that she knew meant trouble. “That’s something different,” he said finally, and Iris settled back in her seat and kicked her legs but said nothing else. Her father was a Baptist, and continued to be a Baptist, and she would never dare think of him as an intolerant man but she knew even back then that he did not understand, not really.

Barry came to live with them five years later, in the winter, but it was already March and Hanukkah was not something that any of them thought about until Thanksgiving had passed and December came and Barry, eleven year old, quiet Barry, who still didn’t often talk unless spoken to and was off in his own world more often than not, said with a note of steel in his voice, “I want to celebrate Hanukkah.”

Iris looked quickly at her father. It had been years since she had first brought up the subject, but she knew that he most likely hadn’t changed his mind about the holiday. She didn’t want her father to react poorly, didn’t want him to hurt Barry’s feelings after everything. (She has always been protective of Barry. It takes her many, many more years before she realizes why.) But her father says nothing, just inhales, exhales.

“Okay,” her father says, and she lets out a long breath. “But I don’t know anything about it, so you’ll have to do it on your own.” Barry’s face falls, just a little bit, but he nods and schools his expression back into something that looks impeccable, something perfect. He’s gotten good at that.

So Barry does Hanukkah by himself that year. They don’t have enough money to get a lot of presents but Iris gives him the one from her on the first day of Hanukkah, because she’s done a lot of research since the first time she saw a menorah in Barry’s house five years ago and she knows that there’s usually presents. She stands with him as he sings, and his voice sounds very small by itself so she starts to hum with him. He lights the menorah by himself every night, and he’s so careful because he’s still so clumsy and she can tell he’s worried about dropping the candle and setting the carpet on fire. She hums with him and her father stays upstairs, and maybe that’s the best they can all hope for, maybe that’s all they can ask for.

She remembers the year it changes. It is the year her father is shot.

They both get pulled out of class one day, and it’s already been a long day, a long week, a long year. Iris is fighting constantly with her father – he doesn’t understand, her curfew is ridiculously early and she keeps trying to get a job so she can make some pocket money but no place will hire her with her limited availability. She tries to present all of this to him, but he keeps saying “I don’t want you on the bus that late, Iris” or “you’ll understand someday, Iris” or “you need to focus on your homework, Iris” and she can’t explain that she can’t focus, that her clothes are old and she needs to relax her hair more often, that she looks shabby next to the other cheerleaders and she always has to turn down their invitations to go get their nails done. She hasn’t stopped rolling her eyes in months and she rolls her eyes when her teacher tells her to go to the office, because she doesn’t even keep track of what she’s doing wrong any more. When Barry meets her there, though, she gets concerned, because in every area that she’s a failure Barry seems to be perfect. He’s never been to the office before, and she sees his hands shaking just slightly before he stuffs them into the pockets of his jeans.

“It’s your father, Ms. West,” the principal says, “there’s been an accident,” and Iris doesn’t remember much after that. She does remember getting to her father’s side, seeing him on the hospital bed, looking almost too small, and still not able to shake the fact that her hair must look awful. She hates herself.

Her father gets out of the hospital but it’s too late. She’s been able to stay in the hospital room, watching and waiting, but Barry’s gone. He’s been living with them this whole time, but he’s still technically a ward of the state. They sweep him away, sweep him into foster care, and by the time her father wakes up he’s long gone. She cries about this. She’s never seen her father so angry.

Barry comes back to them two months later, and he looks the same and acts the same but sometimes he stares off out through the window and doesn’t respond when Iris calls his name, or jumps when her father tries to clap him on the shoulder. It reminds Iris of when he first moved in with them and she hates it. She wants to ask him what happened, what they did to him, but there’s no way he’d ever tell her. He does not celebrate Hanukkah that year.

She asks him, after he wakes up from his coma years later, what Hanukkah means to him. She’s googled it, she knows the official description, knows the premise, but she also knows that nothing is ever as simple as it seems when it comes to religion, and especially not when it comes to Barry. He shrugs.

“Light,” he says. “Miracles.”

Neither of them say what they’re thinking, because Iris is afraid by opening her mouth that she’ll jinx the fact that he’s sitting next to her, breathing, whole, and alive; he still has not told her so many things about himself. Neither of them say that he is the miracle. She buys Hanukkah candles and leaves them on the table. They’re gone with him when he leaves, and then somehow the menorah that belonged to his parents is on the windowsill in her father’s living room and she doesn’t want to mention anything, because she still tiptoes around the intertwined topic of religion and Barry and his family. There are some things that she never, ever brings up with him. He approaches her about them and it’s always been that way.

Then it turns out that Eddie’s Jewish. She doesn’t know how she hasn’t realized this, but she thinks it’s the same way that Barry’s Jewish – he doesn’t talk about it, doesn’t make a fuss about it, just goes about it quietly. She mentions this to Barry and his eyes light up, which is a first when it comes to mentioning Eddie. The two of them sit in a corner and talk and talk and talk and she wants that, suddenly, envy flashing into the pit of her stomach, she wants that closeness with Barry.

So she googles Hanukkah again. She’s an investigative reporter, this is what she does She thinks that jealousy isn’t a great reason to start celebrating a holiday, but just as soon as the thought flashes into her head it’s gone again. She learns the words to the blessings and that year she sings them, standing in between her best friend and her boyfriend, and they both look at her with identically shocked expressions before turning back to the task at hand.

She is part of this, now, and she wonders what took her so long.

* * *

Now they are four years further down the line, without Eddie, but things are okay.

It is December. Barry is back with her, finally, and she is with her family and their family is full and she is married and she doesn’t know what else she could ever, ever want. They go over to the window to light the menorah and tentatively, Wally follows the little crowd. Her father stays seated at the kitchen table. This is all they can ask for. Caitlin is a steady presence at Iris’s elbow. She has been a steady presence for the last four years when it comes to Hanukkah.

“Who wants to lead this year?” someone asks, because although not everyone gathered right now is Jewish, there are a few people who are and there are a few people who are more than qualified to lead.

“You do it, Barry,” and that’s decided, and Iris watches her husband, watches him sing, watch the light of the candle flicker on his face. Once he’s lit the other candles with the shamash, everyone dissipates. Her father turns on some Christmas carols. She tucks herself closer to Barry’s side.

“Hey,” he says.

“I love you,” she says, and she doesn’t even have to look to tell that he’s smiling the biggest grin he has, the grin she thinks is equal parts dorky and adorable.

“Love you too,” he says. “chag sameach.”

“Chag sameach,” she echoes back at him. She is so happy that she can’t think of anything more creative to say. His phone buzzes in his pocket and they both sigh as he digs it out.

“Security alert from the loft,” he mutters. “I’d better go check it out.”  She sighs again but lets him go, because that is what they do, and she lets him kiss her goodbye. She goes back to sit down at the table, listens to her father’s jokes, and she would never have remembered any of the mundane conversations that she had that night if it were not for what happened next.

Dominic hangs up the phone. “Thank you for the evening,” he says, “but I have to go.”

He walks out the door and her father’s cell phone rings. Then her cell phone rings. She answers it, because that is what they do. That is what they all do. Their lives are not their own, their time is not their own.

“Scott?”

“There’s a story,” he says, “I think you should check it out.”

He tells her the address and she can’t feel her legs, her arms, her face, and then feeling slams back into her with the force of a train and everything is tingling. Her father is shouting into his phone, people are all shouting, Harry is yelling for answers and Cisco is yelling that something’s wrong and Caitlin’s trying to get everyone to stop shouting and finally her father hangs up the phone and she somehow manages to tell Scott that she can’t take this story.

“Why the hell not, West?”

“Personal interest,” she says, and now she can’t feel her tongue.

There’s silence on the end of the line and she knows that maybe this means an apology, maybe this means something perfunctory, she can’t stand to listen, she can’t stand this, and so she hangs up. Maybe it’s not professional. Maybe she doesn’t care.

“Get in the car, Iris,” her father says, and she doesn’t even bother to grab her jacket, just runs to grab her wallet off the counter and looks for her keys, where are her keys?

“I’ll get you guys there,” Cisco says, “it’ll be faster,” and someone starts trying to argue with him, someone starts arguing, she can’t believe that someone’s arguing, it is all white noise to her, and suddenly her vision narrows and she sees Harry moving to blow out the two candles, still burning in the menorah.

“No!” she shouts, and for some reason this is what quiets the room. She’s always had the power to get people to listen to her. Right now she doesn’t want it. “Don’t blow those out.”

“It’s a fire hazard,” someone says, and she isn’t thinking clearly enough to differentiate voices.

“Don’t blow those out,” she insists, and she doesn’t know who understands, doesn’t know who relents, but Harry backs away from the candles and they all pour out of the house, leaving the candles flickering in the window. Cisco opens a breach and they grab hands, going through it two by two, and Iris doesn’t know why she hangs back, doesn’t know why she waits, because there isn’t time, _isn’t time_ , but Cisco grabs her elbow and pushes her through and they’re on the street in front of her apartment.

Her thoughts have been racing away from her, tripping over themselves, but now she freezes. She freezes, and she stares at the apartment complex, and stares at the red and blue lights painting the side of the building, stares at the shadows they cast, stares at the people pouring out, stares at her neighbors, and she doesn’t know what to do. She has lived with people who work on the right side of the law all of her life. She doesn’t know what to do and her legs aren’t working, and all she can do is stare at the lights on the side of her building, her home, and in that instant she realizes she doesn’t want to know.

She doesn’t want to know what they’ve found.

“Iris!” her father calls, and she wants to go to him but her legs aren’t working. She’s paralyzed, because suddenly this is real, all of this is real, and all she can do is stare and stare and stare. This cannot be real, this cannot be real, because it is the first night of Hanukkah and she is married and her family was all there and everyone was getting along and everyone was happy and _this cannot be happening to her_.

“Iris!” her father shouts again, and she feels someone loop their arm through hers, tug her along, because her legs still aren’t working. She trips and whoever it is grabs her around the waist.

“Iris, you have to get moving.”

It’s Caitlin. She doesn’t want to be grateful to Caitlin.

“Iris,” her father says, as she stumbles and stumbles and stops in front of him, “I can’t keep them from closing the apartment forever but I’ve pulled some strings. You can go get what you need out, go get your laptop.”

“I can’t,” she says, “I can’t, I can’t,” and she doesn’t know what she’s protesting, not really.

“Iris, baby girl, I’m serious,” and he is serious, she knows that, she wants to tell her father that she knows that, but she still can’t feel her legs and she wants to cry because she can’t know. She can’t know the details, all she knows is that her husband did not do this, could not have done this, and she wants people to know that, to understand, but she doesn’t want to see anything that could implicate him in the slightest. She doesn’t want to know, and she doesn’t understand why people don’t see that, and then there’s more shouts from inside the building and her father immediately starts pushing her away.

“Dad, what’s going on, what are you doing?” and she knows she sounds hysterical, she knows her voice is too shrill and too fast, but she can’t help it, she can’t even feel her legs. “Dad!”

“Baby girl, he doesn’t want you to see him like this, back up,” and she lets out another yell then and for some reason now her legs aren’t failing her. She doesn’t question it, just swerves around her father and runs to him. “Barry,” she says, “Barry,” and she wants to tell him that she knows he’s innocent, wants to tell him that she knows he hasn’t done this, wants to tell him everything, but all she can do is repeat his name, over and over, and his eyes shine with tears. He’s got his hands cuffed behind his back, which would normally force him to open up his chest and look larger than life, but somehow he’s managing to roll his shoulders in, making himself look as small as possible. She hates it.

“Iris,” he says, and it hits her that maybe he can’t say anything else, either.

“Iris, out of the way,” Singh says, and it’s not cruel but it’s not friendly either. It’s impersonal. She hates that, too.

“Please, just give me a minute,” she says, and she can’t believe that this voice even belongs to her, it sounds so desperate, “please, just a minute with him,” and Singh’s shaking his head before she’s even finished.

“You know I can’t do that.”

She knows he can’t.

“Please,” she says one more time, and he keeps shaking his head.

“I love you,” she says instead to Barry, and she watches him bite his lip so he does not cry, watches him go into the back of the police car, watches them slam the door behind him.

She thinks about miracles, then, and the candles that are probably still burning in the menorah on her father’s windowsill. She stands and she watches as the police cars drive away, one by one, orderly, single file, and she watches the car that takes her husband farther and farther and farther away from her. She watches until the flashing lights no longer bother her eyes with their intensity, and then until she can no longer see them at all. She watches and she waits and she hopes for a miracle, because that is what she does. That is what she does.  

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the organizers of dctv-hannukah-event on Tumblr, for dreaming up such a lovely way to celebrate the holiday. Thanks to Giselle and Rabbi Emma, and thanks to you, for reading.


End file.
